


You'd Do Anything

by BastRavenshadow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastRavenshadow/pseuds/BastRavenshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He thought you'd play his game because you were bored, but that's not it, is it?" I spoke as gently as I could, like I'd done to the young men dying under the bright Afghanistan sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'd Do Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in a fanzine (Dyad 26).
> 
> Spoilers for "A Study in Pink".

"That's what he said to me, you know," Sherlock said softly as he lay on our settee, his eyes closed, hands folded as if he were praying.

"Pardon?" I asked, lowering my book, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. 

It was a rainy, quiet evening on Baker Street. I hadn't expected him to say anything at all – he rarely does, at times. He'd warned me about his periods of silence ahead of time, though, so I really couldn't fault the man, could I? Still, I liked his company and tried to be content with what I had of it. 

He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I stared, startled at what I saw there.

I saw loneliness, pain, confusion, things I'd never thought to see on Sherlock Holmes' face or in his eyes, ever.

Sherlock claimed to be a high functioning sociopath, which, if true, was a bit of not good, but I really didn't think that of him. I did know people had trouble relating to him, but he'd never expressed any dissatisfaction at that. Still, I wasn't quite convinced he was a sociopath. Even when he didn't understand what peoples emotional reasons for things were, he'd – with a start, I realised he had spoken again. "Come again?"

With an irritated grimace, now staring up at the ceiling, he muttered, "The cabbie."

"What about him?" I admit, I hadn't put the pieces together yet. 

With a quick glance my way as if to see if I was really listening, Sherlock said, "He said I get bored. He said I'd do anything to keep from being bored."

Taking the time to consider my words, I thought about that, and about what I'd seen briefly in his eyes when he'd looked at me. Sherlock may think I'm an idiot, but I'm not. "He thought you'd play his game because you were bored, but that's not it, is it?" I spoke as gently as I could, like I'd done to the young men dying under the bright Afghanistan sun. 

Eyes wide, he looked at me. It was plain he never thought I'd understand or figure it out. He slowly shook his head and the tip of his tongue moistened his lips. It wasn't hard to see he was unsure about what I might say or do. 

I may not be brilliant and amazing like Sherlock, but like I said, I'm not a complete idiot, either. It was shockingly simple once I thought about it, really thought about it. 

Sherlock did not connect with the world as most people did, did not notice the ordinary interactions except as they served as clues in his deductions. So, how would such a man express the basic needs of most mortals for... contact? For love? "You're lonely," I murmured, setting my book aside. 

I already knew how I felt about Sherlock – it was, no doubt, easy for everyone to see. Even Sherlock had figured it out quickly, judging by the whole awkward 'married to my work' discussion at Angelos. I turned away from the memory of that conversation, choosing to focus on the here and now.

I was surprised to see Sherlock frowning as though I'd tossed out some of his experiments, and that made me hesitate. I paused, trying to decide what to do when he said, "I didn't know it really until you."

Absurdly flattered – probably a damn sight more than I should be, really, I stood up. 

A flash of alarm, then resignation, flitted across Sherlock's handsome face and I fondly thought once again of what an idiot he was.

Limping across the carpet, I held my hand out to him without saying a word. 

He studied it as though it was something unknown, something of great fascination. Slowly, he sat up and slid his hand into mine. 

Leading him up to my bedroom, I still didn't say anything until I had closed the door behind us. Then I simply said, "You aren't alone anymore, Sherlock." He wasn't. I had no intention of ever abandoning him. 

Sherlock looked between the bed and me for a long moment, his hand slightly sweaty as his palm against mine. He fastened his gaze on the bed before he moistened his lips once again. "I haven't much experience in these matters," he confessed.

"Neither have I," I said firmly, coaxing him forward to sit with me on the bed. 

Surprised, he stared at me. 

I shrugged. "Unattached, like you."

Awareness blossomed in those gorgeous eyes of his. "You're lonely, too."

I smiled, just a little. "Well, not as much as I was."

"Oh." Sherlock frowned then. 

Gently, carefully, I explained. "You see, I have this really amazing, brilliant man for a best friend." I did not want to frighten him off, and somehow I knew that just pouncing on him would not be the thing to do. 

He brightened at that, just like he so often did when I said those kind of things to or about him. Had no one really seen him? Did they all call him 'freak' like Sally Donovan did to his face? Did they privately think that of this wonderful, exasperating, bright man? It wasn't right, if so, and it would be stopped. Of that, I was determined. I would see to it.

Sherlock squeezed my hand once, then released it. "Let's get undressed." He immediately suited action to words, and since he had initiated it, I gladly followed his lead. 

Soon enough we were under the duvet, his long legs tangled with mine as I held him as tight as I dared, kissing him everywhere I could reach. 

He didn't seem to want to let go of me, either, and that was all right, too. Better than all right, really.

**The Next Morning**

"I lied to you," Sherlock said first off, his voice rough with sleep.

I stared at him, and I'm sure my absolute devastation at those four words showed, because he quickly hurried on.

"John, not this, not us; I didn't lie about that." 

I supposed I still looked sceptical, because he brushed his knuckles carefully across my cheek. "I lied about being married to my work. About not having a boyfriend."

Relieved, I hugged him tight. "Yeah? What's he like, this boyfriend of yours?"

Sherlock seemed to carefully consider his words. Then he smiled. "A bit good."

We started laughing, holding each other tight, not intending on ever letting go.


End file.
